Still Rising

(a Reimagined Easter)

Maybe the real miracle of Easter is that no matter how awful it gets—no matter how much it feels like hate is having its way—Love keeps rising. - Esther Joy Goetz

I remember the Easter mornings of my childhood—
sunrise services, crisp church clothes, pastel eggs,
and a story that always left me just a little unsettled.

I didn’t have the words for it back then,
but something in me felt the weight of it all:

The suffering.
The guilt.
The idea that someone had to die for me, for my awfulness, for that lie I told last week—and that my job was to feel super bad about it and somehow be eternally grateful at the same time.

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As someone who’s been slowly—sometimes painfully—
untangling from the grip of fear and guilt in my relationship with God,
I’ve found myself asking what it means to hold the Easter story now.

Not to discard it.
But to revisit and reconsider it through a lens of Love.

Because this time of year still feels so very sacred to me.

Spring.
Resurrection.
Hope.
The possibility of beginning again.

Lately, I’ve been watching our rhododendron sleep through winter—
its buds closed tight, tucked in, waiting.

At one point, during the coldest, snowiest stretch,
they were coated in ice,
the leaves drooping in frozen stillness.

I’d stand there in the quiet, looking out the window,
marveling at the truth I knew in my bones:
when the light returns, when warmth finds its way back,
those same frozen buds will burst into a chorus of purple—
blooms that sing of beauty and hope.

New life always starts in the dark.

And today, we’re reminded of that in spades.

We stand outside a cave.
A tomb.
The darkest place of all.

A place that reeks of betrayal and loneliness and despair.

And somehow—impossibly—
we also stand outside that same cave in the light of resurrection,
a stone rolled away revealing a Love that refuses to stay buried.

A Love that feeds the hungry and washes dusty feet.
That weeps at gravesides and welcomes the outsider.
That speaks truth to power
and lays down control instead of grasping for more.

Maybe the real miracle of Easter
is that no matter how awful it gets—
no matter how much it feels like hate is having its way (and phew, does it ever right now)—
Love keeps rising.

This kind of Love doesn’t rely on violence to prove its worth.
It doesn’t demand suffering to make itself holy.
It doesn’t require blood to justify its power.

That old version of the story—
the one where love must be earned and pain is a prerequisite—
has done real harm.
(I speak from experience here.)

But there is another way to hold this sacred day.

One that begins in resistance
and ends in resurrection.

One that speaks to the Divine Spark—
the very Image of God—within us all.
To those buried parts of us that long to bloom.

So how do we live into a reimagined Easter?

We start by asking better questions:

What does resurrection mean to me today?
What helps me come alive again after a long, dark season?

We pay attention to the symbols:

The sun lingering longer.
The green breaking through the brown.
The warmth slowly returning to our bones.

These are holy, too.

We make space for mystery.
We don’t need to explain everything to honor it.

We can simply say:
I don’t know exactly what happened.
But I believe in a Love that doesn’t stay buried.
I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

And maybe most of all—
we live our own becoming.

We tend gently to what’s been hidden, frozen, or forgotten.
We name the small resurrections unfolding
in the most ordinary places.

This morning, I peeked out at my rhododendron again.
Its leaves were glorious—stretching toward the light.
The buds are still closed, not quite as tight,
and I can see the faint color beneath the green.

The purple is coming.

It won’t be today.
Maybe not even next week.
But I can feel it—
the incredible new life that started long ago,
in the dark.

Resurrection that happens
not in spite of our grief and questions—
but in the very middle of them.

In our homes.
In our bodies.
In our relationships.
In our dreams.
In our checkbooks.
In our hearts.

Even when we’re numb or doubting or sad.
Even when we’re dying on the inside (or the outside).
Even when anxiety wakes us at 2:30 a.m.
When bad news lands hard.
When rejection stings.
When we feel abandoned, unfaithful, or afraid.

On the days we can grasp this even a little, it changes everything.

We trust—sometimes holding our breath as we wait.
We rest—knowing death doesn’t get the final word.
We cling to hope with each breath we take—
believing resurrection is meted out
in the daily stuff of life:
eating, working, laughing, weeping,
loving as best we can.

And on the days we can’t?

Still—Love refuses to stay buried,
whether we know it or not.

Still—we breathe, long and slow and deep,
God in each inhale and exhale.

Still—rhododendrons will bloom,
even if we’re hunkering down under the covers,
unable to see them.

Because Easter doesn’t end on a cross.
It ends in a garden.

With tears turning to recognition.
With fear turning to hope.
With Love—

still blooming,
still breathing,
still rising.

Wherever and however you’re holding this season,
may Easter bring a sense of breath,
of beauty,
of Love still rising in you.

From my heart to yours,
Esther

P.S. This is what this same rhododendron will look like it just four weeks. Of this, I have no doubt.

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Reflection Questions:

What parts of me feel like they’ve been in the dark this season—tucked in, hidden, or frozen?

Where in my ordinary, everyday life do I notice small resurrections—tiny signs of beauty, hope, or healing?

(would love for you to share something with our community by leaving a comment)

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